A Morning Phone Call
by Psalm 136
Summary: Ignores X3. Scott left the mansion seven years ago, and hasn't contacted anyone since. One morning at Ocean Shores, he calls the Professor and needs to explain.


**This story is just a little conversation between Scott and the professor that I came up with. This ignores the events of X3, and the basic storyline before the story begins is that Scott did leave the mansion, but he didn't head for Alkali Lake. **

**Disclaimer: I disclaim.**

Scott yawned freely as he looked across the beach he'd stopped at for a few hours' rest. Dawn was almost upon him, and the weak sunlight was beginning to caress the sea's gentle waves that slapped against the rocky shore. The boardwalk was completely empty, and the food stalls were abandoned. The small town by the shore was absolutely asleep, and he was the only one awake. He straddled the motorcycle he'd escaped from Xavier's on, simply relaxing. He hadn't done that in a long time.

The air seemed to carry a lingering softness to it, as if comforting him with a message of gentleness and quietness. His life for the past seven years had been loud, obnoxious, and full of drunkenness. He had come a long way from the man he had once been, but there were a few moments between the bars and the women where he found some semblance of peace and forgiveness for all of the terrible acts he'd committed. He had always loved Jean, and even when he was having wildly passionate and meaningless sex with beautiful redheads, he was only ever thinking of her. He had forgotten to think of the feelings of those women; he needed to remember Jean. However, those women were nothing like Jean. Their touches had none of Jean's fire, her beauty, and her love. He had found only momentary euphoria, only physical peace. His mind was never resting, and disturbing dreams broke through what might have been peaceful sleep.

The salt air gently awoke Scott's senses, and he prepared to start up his bike and continue moving again when something stopped him. A bemused expression graced his young, handsome face as he glanced about. His instincts were no less sharp than they had been seven years before, but he sensed no immediate danger. The beach and surrounding area was completely abandoned, and there was not a soul in sight. What was bothering him? He spotted a pay phone a dozen yards off, and realized what had hit him. He needed to make a phone call.

Scott left his bike where it was, confident there was no one awake to steal it, and walked to the pay phone. His fingers were reluctant to pick it up and insert the coins, but he did so any way. His heart was suddenly thudding as he pressed the numbers, only vaguely aware of all the germs he could be coming in contact with, and listened to the sound of the number being dialed. His breath was coming in soft pants, and his head swam from anxiety. He was nervous. Scott Summers, even in this broken down, weary state, was never nervous. Yet here it was.

"Hello, Charles Xavier speaking. How may I help you?" The familiar, smooth, cultured voice of Charles Xavier washed over him, like a song he had once heard in his youth, a distant but beloved memory.

Scott's throat was stuck. What could he possibly say after seven years? An apology? An explanation? The professor deserved both, but he couldn't give them. There were no words to describe what needed to be said. The old wounds he had caused upon himself when he had left were reopened and salt was rubbed into them. He could have cried aloud from the pain, but he stifled the sound and focused.

"It's Scott." Seven years, and this is all he could say.

"Hello Scott." There was an undertone of reservation in the Professor's warm voice, but it did not ward off all conversation. It merely warned him to choose his words carefully, and to remember that he had not only caused wounds to himself. "It has been a long time."

"Yeah." Scott turned away from the machine and faced the still deserted beach. The sky was beginning to turn from a dark gray to a light gray and blue mixture. The sun was beginning to poke its head over the far off horizon, but the world was still silent, save for the voice in his ear. "Yeah, I know."

"How have you been?" He could have praised God for the professor's ability to ignore emotion and say what needed to be said, or do what needed to be done. He had always tried, but the thoughts of what he had left behind and what he was struggling with were too near that he needed to be led. He was too tired from trying so hard.

"Exhausted." He answered honestly. He could feel the tiredness in the very marrow of his bones, and he needed a good, long sleep that wasn't fraught with images of Jean and their relationship. He needed a real escape, but he found Jean in everything, because she had been his everything. "Absolutely exhausted, professor. I'm…" He paused. Could he say it? Did he have a right to say it? "I'm sorry for everything, for just leaving. I just left my duty behind without any reason at all, and expected the school to cope. I was selfish." The very truth of his own words stung him, but he kept forcing the words forward. If he never spoke with the professor again, he needed to say these things.

"Thank you." Scott was almost stunned by the simple thanks.

"What?" was all he could possibly manage through his throat that seemed to have a large lump stuck within.

"Thank you for calling and thank you for apologizing. I forgave you a long time ago," The professor's voice seemed to have a certain tone to it, the kind that sophisticated people used to say 'duh'. "But it does mean a lot, hearing from you. We have all missed you here, Scott. I have missed you."

Scott smiled slightly, his lips barely curving. He hadn't found much to smile about, or laugh about, for that matter, in the past years, but hearing the professor's voice brought simple joy back to him. He held the black voice against his ears, sighing in relief. He let himself slide to the ground, glad the cord was long enough to reach that far. All strength had been stolen from his body in an effort to keep himself from crying in relief. He had worried and angsted about what the professor would say, and so many times had he gone over this conversation, but the professor had offered only condemnation and anger. It was only common sense the professor had only worried about him, and hoped he was fairing well. The professor was, first and foremost, a generous man, and cared for others before himself.

"I'm glad I called." He admitted softly. "I feel better now than I have in a long time, since…" He gave a strangled sound, but recovered his strength quickly. "Since Jean died," his voice was louder than it should have been, but he was forcing breath and speech from his lungs and mouth. It simply needed to get out.

"Then I am glad for you." Though it was clichéd, Scott could almost hear the smile in the professor's voice. "Scott, when are you coming home?"

"Home?" Scott asked contemplatively. He had never truly considered the mansion his home, though it was where he belonged. He had always known that. He had never considered it home simply because he did not know what having a home meant. Home had been where Jean was, she was everything to him, but she was gone. "I-I'm not sure." He cast his eyes to the concrete the phone booth was built on and brushed away the sand that had spread over it. "I don't know if I can," he whispered.

The professor sighed sadly on the other side of the phone. "Whenever you are ready, we will be here, Scott. I hope you know that. It's never too late to come home. I'll be waiting for whenever you're ready." He paused momentarily. "You are my son, and you need to come home when you can."

That simple statement knocked the breath from Scott's lungs. He jerked suddenly, knocking his head against the pole that held the pay phone up. He rubbed the sore spot on his head as he adjusted himself, staring across the sea. The sun was lighting it up brilliantly, and the darkness of night had been banished, though the dawn was still very weak, and it seemed that the night could slip back into dominance at any given moment. There was hope, it seemed, for the morning, and for the day that was to come.

"Thank you, professor. It means a lot." Scott smiled against the mouthpiece of the phone. "I'll think on it. I can't promise you that you'll see me, I can't even promise I'll call again," He ran his fingers through his messy, windswept hair, thinking of all of the meaningless destinations he had to reach. "But I'll think on it. And thanks. Thank you for everything, professor."

"Goodbye, Scott."

"Bye, professor."

Scott reached up and hung the phone up, feeling an ache in his heart to call the professor back, but he had no more spare change in his pockets, and his stomach was growling. He only had a few meager earnings from the odd jobs he had been living off of for the past years, and he needed something to eat. He pushed himself off of the ground, and brushed off the back of his faded and scuffed leather pants. He walked back to his motorcycle and straddled it.

Scott looked across the ocean, and the sun was half-risen. The promise of day had been fulfilled, and another day was indeed beginning. The night had not been completely banished, but it no longer held the world in its complete thrall. The waves reflected the pale sunlight, adding to the beauty of the morning. He looked at the sign that read "Ocean Shores" as he started up his bike. He retracted the kickstand and left the beach. He headed up the road to the highway. He glanced at the sign and attempted to decide on his direction.

"_You are my son, and you need to come home when you can."_

Instead of heading south, he headed east. It was time to go home.


End file.
